


I Will Remember Your Face

by onceandforall



Category: Supernatural
Genre: Alternate Universe - Croatoan/Endverse, M/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2014-03-12
Updated: 2014-03-12
Packaged: 2018-01-15 11:24:02
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,223
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/1303099
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/onceandforall/pseuds/onceandforall
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>warmth n.<br/>enthusiasm, affection, or kindness<br/>synonyms: friendliness, amiability, geniality, cordiality, tenderness, fondness</p>
            </blockquote>





	I Will Remember Your Face

i.

**win·ter**

_the coldest season of the year_

 

Castiel walks. The wind bites at his cheeks and he shivers, feeling all of his exposed skin growing red under its chill touch. He hates winter. Prefers spring with its gentle breeze and blooming flowers. Spring is the season of life, unlike winter where everything thing is frozen over, either dormant or dead. The only sounds Castiel hears are of his feet crumbling into the soft snow. He doesn’t like the meaningless din.

 

He stops when the smoke rising from the chimneys is only a faint outline in the pale sky. It’s only if he tries really hard does he smell the ash. Even then it’s faint, clouded by the cold pain that shoots his lungs with every intake of breath.

 

He spies Dean sitting down on the snow, underneath a tree that if Castiel didn’t know any better, he would be calling dead. It was the first one to lose all of its leaves, if his memory served him correctly. But winter always seemed to drag on, spring’s hope lost in the flurry of flakes. Dean turns his head to look at him, catches his eye, and then drops the glance as if he was expecting him. Castiel thinks he should be, given that this whole ordeal has repeated itself throughout the years they have endured together.

 

Castiel doesn’t have to say he’s sorry, the meaning of the words long overused and stale. “What happened this time?” he asks instead as he joins Dean on the ground. They lean against the trunk of the tree, the snow seeping through their already worn layers of clothing.

 

He hears Dean sigh. “It was just a kid, Cas.” Dean’s fingers crash into the snow, swirling a pattern into the white powder. He outlines a devil’s trap, given a bit messy as his fingers freeze with the cold of the snow. “He looked just like Sammy,” Dean adds softly and Castiel almost doesn’t hear him over the wind that rushes by his ears. Dean smooths over the disturbed snow with the back of his hand.

 

Instead of replying Castiel lays his hand on Dean’s and wraps his fingers around the other man’s cold palms. He laces their fingers together, partly to try to warm them up and partly just the enjoy the spark Dean’s touch sends up his arm. Even after all this time, the sensation he gets when he’s near Dean has never gotten old. He leans closer towards Dean and whispers, “It’s not your fault.”

 

Dean swallows hard, but does not respond. Instead they watch as the sun sinks down into the horizon, throwing off hues of purple and orange into the sky. By the time they leave, the stars already have come out, shining brightly to illuminate their path back.

 

Their fingers are still intertwined and Castiel thinks that maybe winter is bearable with Dean’s warmth by his side.

 

 

ii.

**spring**

_the season after winter and before summer, in which vegetation begins to appear_

 

Dean frowns, and tries to ignore the commotion that is going on behind him. “I’ll go fucking find him,” he growls in response to a girl grasping his arm tight as she asks where Cas is. He shrugs off her grip and glares her down. She lets go of his arm and scampers away without another word, only leaving behind the faint trace of pot lingering in the air.

 

Dean huffs. He can feel a headache coming on and vaguely wonders if their stockpile of painkillers had run dry. He prays to the nonexistent god above that they have a few left.

 

He ends up circling the exterior of the camp once before sighing and plunging in the woods. The path is familiar to his feet as they lead him to the clearing without him even having to think about it. He finds Castiel lying on the hood of the Impala, eyes closed. Dean watches his chest rise and fall with the rhythm of his breaths for a few seconds before clearing his throat.

 

“It’s pointless,” Castiel says, eyes still closed.

 

Out of all the things he was expecting Cas to say that was not one of them. Dean scrunches up his face in confusion, hoping that he heard wrong. “What?”

 

“Praying. Hoping. Wishing.” Castiel opens his eyes and stares into the blue of the sky. He laughs, a cold sound that grates against Dean’s already foul mood. “I used to think that He actually cared,” Cas continues, “but if He did, then what the hell am I still doing here?”

 

Dean sighs. “Cas, you can’t think like that. You of all people can’t do this to me.” He approaches the rusted hood and winces at the sight. He hates not being able to take care of his baby, but nowadays there are more important matters that take priority. Dean longs for the days when the most prominent thing on his mind was making sure that Sammy was safe and that the Impala was running smoothly. Now Sam was dead and Baby was a lost cause.

 

“Please don’t.” Dean steps closer to Castiel and rests his hand on his friend’s shoulder.

 

Castiel laughs. Dean smells the alcohol on his breath. “I’m serious Cas, you’re all I fucking have left and I don’t know what I would do without you.” When Castiel doesn’t respond Dean pouts. “I’m banning you from ever drinking anything other than water for at least a week.” He hauls Cas to his feet, expecting a series of incoherent mumbles of resistance to spill out of his friend’s chapped mouth, but only gets a small sigh in reaction.

 

The walk back to camp is unpleasant as Cas decides that moving his own feet is a task that he is unable to perform, but the pressure of Castiel against his side is welcomed and missed warmth. Dean stares down the girl as she tries to approach them, her face growing dark as she turns away and stalks the other way. Dean feels a sense of protectiveness blossoming in his chest and he relishes in the feeling.

 

They reach their small cabin (getting up the stairs was an entirely different matter) and the spring breeze is calming as it flitters around them. Dean lays Castiel down onto the bed and walks to the restroom to wash up. He lets the cold shower stream run down his body, erasing the grime that had collected over the past few days. He returns to the room to find that Castiel had rolled over onto his side and had grasped a pillow, holding it close to his side.

 

Even though the sun is still high in the sky, Dean clambers into bed right next to Castiel, wrapping his arms around the other man. He is about to drift off into a well-needed sleep when he feels Castiel stiffen against him.

 

“Were you lying?” is whispered.

 

“What are you talking about?” Dean asks. His question is a lie in itself and they both know it.

 

“What you said earlier. That you don’t know what you’d do without me,” comes the response anyways.

 

Dean shakes his head and presses a chaste kiss to the nape of Castiel’s neck. “No, Cas. I don’t have a reason to lie.” He fights a yawn.

 

“You’re the reason I still pray. Why I still hope. Why I still wish.” Castiel confesses after a few moments of silence. “You’re the reason I still cling onto faith, Dean. _You are my faith_.”

 

But Dean had already given up and handed his conciseness to sleep. He snores and Castiel leans back into Dean’s warmth. He feels his muscles relax and after a moment of studying the planes of Dean’s face, sinks into sleep as well.

 

 

iii. 

**sum·mer**

_the warmest season of the year_

 

It’s a rare sound to hear anybody laugh nowadays, but that’s exactly what Dean does as the water laps around his ankles and his feet sink into the pliable sand. The sun beats down on his back and if Castiel squints hard enough, he thinks he can see a splash of freckles forming.

 

Dean wades through the water until he’s waist deep, a smile painting his face. Castiel can’t help but smile back at the sight.

 

“C’mon, it’s warm!” Dean grins and leans backwards into the water, a splash indicating where the water enveloped him.

 

Castiel picks up a handful of sand and lets it run through the cracks of his fingers. He’s about to deny Dean’s offer but then he looks up and sees the way Dean’s hair is dampened by the salty water, the way that the droplets stick on his eyelashes like they belong there from the start, only to run down his face every time he blinks. Castiel can’t bring himself to refuse.

 

He gets up and runs into the water, loving the cool feel of the liquid against his burnt skin. He dives in when he gets waist deeps and comes back to surface, rubbing the water out of his eyes. The first thing he sees is Dean, beautiful Dean with the sun raining down on him, making his freckles contrast even more against his skin than normal. Then Dean is kissing him, slow and sweet. Castiel involuntarily wraps his arms around Dean, and takes in the taste of Dean’s lips, marred by the salt of the water but still so inherently Dean that it makes Castiel sigh into the kiss.

 

Dean’s hands wind up in Castiel’s hair, gently pulling them closer together so they can- and then Dean is gone. Castiel gasps and falls into the water, all of his weight displaced as he was leaning on Dean just moments ago. He tries making his way back to the surface, but it seems like his arms are weights on his side. And then his feet can’t touch the soft sand at the bottom any more and the sun’s reflection against the water is growing smaller and smaller until it’s just a pinprick in the ripples above him.

 

Castiel’s lungs burn and he can’t help but take a gasp, hoping for the soothing relief of oxygen, but only getting the choking sensation of water lodging in this throat instead.

 

Castiel screams, but this time the sun is beating down from the grimy window and he’s sitting upright in his bed, fingers clenching the sheets so tightly that he has to force himself to relax before his grip lessens.

 

He turns his head, his eyes looking widely for the presence of another body (presumably Dean’s) but he stumbles across nothing except for the rumpled sheets on the other side of the bed. His hopes get up for a moment, only to come crashing down on him, a feeling of sadness pooling in stomach.

 

Dean wouldn’t be here. He wasn’t here when Castiel went to sleep and Castiel sure as hell didn’t expect him to be there when he woke up. But it would have been nice. Dean was always the one to chase away the nightmares after all.

 

Castiel takes a few deep, shaky breaths before forcing himself to lie back down. No matter how much Castiel tries to ignore it, the creaky bed doesn’t seem like home anymore. It’s too cold, even in the dead of summer.

 

 

iv. 

**au·tumn**

_the third season of the year, when crops and fruits are gathered and leaves fall_

 

The leaves crunch underfoot and Castiel hates the sound. It’s too normal, too mundane, and he can’t wrap his head around how everything in the world can continue with everything that had happened.

 

It’s mind boggling and somewhat saddening how one thing can seem so little to the world around but leave one so devastated, so broken inside. But the wind still rustles through the plants and the rain still streaks down the windows as if nothing had ever happened in the first place.

 

It makes Castiel want to cry.

 

He continues walking, into the woods, past the almost forgotten Impala, and to a seemingly insignificant patch of dirt. It had lightly rained earlier in the morning and the ground below his feet was wet, damp, but not muddy.

 

_I’m sorry. I’m sorry. I’m sorry._

It is a mantra, the only thing he can bring himself to say as he stares down at the bland section of dirt. He would have brought flowers except for the fact that none were to be found.

 

And the fact that flowers died.

 

_Nothing is permanent, Cas!_

The words ring in his head and he wishes, oh how Castiel wishes, that their last conversation could have been a pleasant one, not one that ended up with both parties torn and unwillingly swallowing sobs. 

Castiel squats and runs his fingers over the dirt, hesitating. He takes a breath and lets the tip of his index finger run over the grave.

 

He neatly traces a devil’s trap, protection. It’s the closest he can get his words to transfer to a physical form. Of how much he cares, and of how much he loves.

 

He smears the sign over with the side of his hand, and gets up and leaves. It was almost as if nobody had been there in the first place.

 

Castiel knows the next winter is going to be too cold to handle.

**Author's Note:**

> Title is from the song "Atlas Hands" by Benjamin Francis Leftwich. It's a lovely song which I highly recommend you listen to.


End file.
